


A Stitch So Fine

by significantowl



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Cardigans, Inspired by Photography, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon Fix-It, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 10:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles approves of Erik's choices in knitwear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch So Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [a cardigan Michael Fassbender wore](http://significantowl.tumblr.com/post/60705809739/kageillusionz-moviesandmischief-michael) while in Toronto for the TIFF.

"No, Hank, I can’t," Charles says. "I think this feels like an early night."

He doesn't glance across the table at Erik while he says it. He doesn't need to in order for Erik to recognise his true meaning, nor does he need to for his mind to dwell on the picture that Erik makes in that slim-fit, thin-ribbed cardigan, the black one with the wide shawl collar that dives down into a deep v, showing off the vulnerable line of Erik's throat, travelling down to the tight white t-shirt beneath. 

Thanks to Charles' eidetic memory, one glimpse is enough for a feast, and he's had far more than that already. From the moment he awoke to see Erik leaving the bedroom that morning, in that cardigan and perfectly tailored black trousers, he's spent the day helping himself to views from the eyes of students and faculty alike. Erik in the corridor, leaning against the open door of his classroom, welcoming his students; Erik at the blackboard, scrawling equations; all the best moments like these carefully selected and lingered over like dishes from a buffet designed entirely to Charles' taste.

Charles smiles to himself, tucking into his cassoulet with renewed vigour. His current taste in metaphors suggests that he may be hungrier than he had first imagined, and he'll certainly need his strength for the night ahead.

Hank is adjusting his glasses, his disappointment tangible to Charles' mind, as it ever is when he's forced to temper scientific inquiry to someone else's schedule. But he'll say nothing more. He's learned by now not to press when it comes to Charles' brain and Cerebro, at least not in Erik's presence - in this, as in all subjects he has made his own, Erik has proven himself a superb teacher.

Across the table, Erik sips his wine and offers no comment, his expression a perfect study in disinterest. But his mind is alight with anticipation, blazing bright as a signal fire, and Charles decides that perhaps he’s had enough of his meal after all. He rests his fork on his plate, preparing to roll back from the table. Erik is the very picture temptation wrapped in self-control; there is no better time to begin.

In the bedroom, they'll start with Charles' cock, as they often do. It's a fickle thing these days, and when it does take an interest, Charles doesn’t feel it directly, but as heat in his blood that makes a flush bloom high on his chest and neck, and his breath run quick. But that’s precisely what makes Charles’ cock an excellent starter, because Charles likes those feelings, and he likes propping up on his elbows to watch Erik nibble and taste, because hard or soft, Erik likes his cock.

But first, tonight, Charles transfers quickly up to the bed, and Erik steps close, allowing Charles to run his hands up Erik's sides, relishing the play of the soft, fine ribbing over hard muscle. He's looked all day; it's a pleasure, a delightfully delayed pleasure, to be able to touch. "This quite suits you," he says.

"I imagined you thought it might," Erik says. "I could think of no other reason a man with your kind of money would suffer a sweater that was too long in the arms."

"Yes, well," Charles says, and tugs imperiously, bringing Erik even closer. He stretches upwards, and Erik bends his head, making it easy for Charles to mouth at his neck just above the edge of that deep collar, Erik's skin soft under his lips and the cashmere equally wonderful under his cheek. Charles' hands are busy all the while; he smooths his palms up Erik's chest, traces a finger along the edge of that t-shirt, and by the time he's touched his fill, by the time he slips the top button of the cardigan free, Erik's cock is straining at the front of his trousers. 

Charles looks at this too, happily, greedily, but doesn't touch.

Their clothes come off slowly, with that delicious cardigan and the shirt beneath it most definitely left for last. For long moments Erik simply stands before Charles, hands at his sides, cock curving out long and hard, almost but not quite brushing Charles' stomach, while Charles lets his hands roam over the jumper, hanging open like a curtain just before the first act begins. He dances along the hem, finger-walks aimlessly up to the collar, flattens his palms over Erik's ribs and takes a long, slow dive that ends deep in the pockets, but never once does he touch skin.

"Shall I get comfortable?" he asks, fists still at home in Erik's pockets, swinging ever-so-gently from side to side. When a soft bit of wool whispers against the base of Erik's cock, Erik's controlled flinch is a thing of beauty. 

"Do what you will," Erik says, and Charles does.

When Charles is settled back against his pillows, cardigan, Erik nestles between Charles' legs and turns his attention to Charles' cock. Neither of them close their eyes. There's pleasure for Charles in seeing Erik lip the head, even without much in the way of direct sensation, and Erik is enjoying himself as well, if the twitching of his own cock is any indication, trapped between the weight of his body and the mattress. That Charles can experience any time he wants, and he's in Erik's mind now, feeling it all, half-wishing for Erik to give for just a moment, to bear down with his hips and drag his cock along the sheets, just one time.

Surely one time would hurt nothing. Erik could stop after one time. Charles knows he could. 

Erik ignores him, of course. It's far too early for him to be anywhere close to breaking yet.

Charles does get hard, after a time. Erik is nosing along the crease of Charles' thigh, covering Charles' cock completely with one large, possessive hand, when Charles suddenly sees the tip poking through Erik's fingers. He bats at Erik's head, and Erik crawls up his body immediately, stopping when their hips are aligned. Only then does he lift his hand from Charles' cock. 

Hand held aloft, Erik pauses for a moment so that Charles may look his fill, and it appears he is _quite_ hard tonight. His cock loves Erik, as does the rest of him, and when he arches his back Erik dips his head low, kissing his way along Charles' chest, following paths of muscle, softly skimming each nipple in turn.

He knows when Erik has taken their cocks together in hand by the wonderful jolt that runs through Erik's. Charles gasps, feeling with him the first true touch on that long shaft tonight - oh, Erik had been so careful when he'd slipped off his clothes, not even allowing his fingers a glancing blow - and beneath Erik, his own hot length, smooth and hard.

Erik flicks his tongue over Charles' nipple, causing Charles to gasp again, and his mind is suddenly flooded with Erik's pleasure at hearing it. _Slow?_ he thinks at Erik, not because the question truly needs asking - he knows the answer, he's bedded down deep with what Erik craves - but as a signal. He's ready, he's ready, he's ready.

Erik is the one with the iron will in these matters, who makes nights like these last into the pale hours of morning while the school sleeps around them. Charles is the one who reaps the benefits.

Erik draws his hand up in one excruciatingly slow stroke, holding their cocks loosely until he reaches the crest and wets his palm from his own slit; then it's back down, equally slow, but beautifully tight. Charles bites his lip when, through Erik's mind, he feels his own cock throb against those slender fingers, and pulse against Erik's length.

Charles cannot hear a clock ticking, but he knows that one is, somewhere, and that Erik has married himself to its dispassionate rhythm. For a long while, an amazingly long while, his strokes do not vary at all. Charles' shoulders roll back against the pillows, the only outlet he has for the absolute need building in him though Erik. Perhaps it's even more than that, perhaps it's the only outlet Erik has as well; watching Charles break down may be the freedom that feeds his control.

When Erik's hand pauses at the stop of a stroke, just a slight hitch, Charles' back stiffens, and he wonders - but no, not yet, the downward glide is no faster than the one that came before. There are many, many more perfect strokes before it happens again, and again. Two more pauses, two more hitches, and finally Erik uncurls his fingers, lays his palm flat on Charles' stomach, drops his head, and breathes.

"Take a walk," Charles says, his own breath coming short. "Please."

Erik nods. He lifts off Charles and to his feet in one graceful, flowing movement, and Charles rises up on his elbows again for the best possible view. Erik is power and need on leashed display; he is all long sculpted lines, bound muscle and curving cock, jutting out hard and flushed. He paces around the bed, incredibly slow, and Charles is with him for every step. Charles does remember what this felt like in his own body, his cock hanging heavy and free, swinging slightly with every step, need rising with the small tremors and shifts accompanying every foot-fall - it was a careless, untreasured delight, but quite truthfully one that feels even better in Erik's skin, because Erik's cock is so long and thick, and it hangs so heavy that Charles' fingers are gripping the sheets by the time Erik has circled the bed and is kneeling over him again.

A peek downward shows that with the break in physical stimulation, his own cock has softened, but Charles couldn't care less. He's so wrapped up in Erik that he's desperate for him both to last forever and to come _right now_. Erik hears that thought, twined together as they are, and there's a smile spreading over his face as he straddles Charles' waist. _It's up to you, now,_ Erik thinks, leaning forward, placing his palms either side of Charles' head. _Break me whenever you can._

 _Unfair_ , Charles thinks privately, running a finger along Erik's length, his own back arching when he reaches the tip. He sets a syncopated pace for the hell of it, slow strokes interspersed with fast, and grins fiercely when he catches sight of Erik gritting his teeth. 

But still Erik hangs on. Slow-slow-fast, and in time there is a very slight trembling in Erik's biceps, from the strain of holding himself upright, and from holding himself back; slow-slow-fast, and they're both panting, mouths touching but not kissing, because that would take more coordination that Charles has left, and more concentration than Erik can spare.

Then Charles fits a hand to the small of Erik's back and pushes him down, so that his cock lies heavy on Charles' chest, the wide head a breath away from Charles' nipple. Wrapping his fingers around Erik, Charles rests a thumb over his slit and pulls, the crest of each stroke hitting them both where they're the most sensitive, and after the first rub of Erik's cockhead over his nipple Charles gives up hope of any sort of rhythm at all. When Erik comes, it's Charles who groans loudest, slamming his head back into the pillow, while Erik looks faintly surprised, thinking unquietly that he believed he had another half hour in him for sure.

He may have. Charles can't be certain whether he pulled Erik's orgasm out of him with his mind or his hands, and he doesn't really care.

"You started it," Charles says, slipping his fingers through Erik's hair, where Erik's head is pillowed on his chest. "Parading around the school in my clothes all day."

"Yes, you may not wish to pay such close attention tomorrow. My style of teaching on an hour's sleep is probably not something the headmaster should witness."

"You knew I was watching?"

"I know _you_ ," Erik corrects, pressing a kiss to Charles' temple. They settle, then, for that last hour's sleep, Erik pulling the covers up over them and flicking off the lamp. Charles still isn't entirely ready to close his eyes; his appetite may be sated, but he's content to linger, to watch Erik like this for a time, so perfectly clear to him even in shadow. Erik knows him, and as their breathing falls into a soft, gentle rhythm, Charles blankets them both in the knowledge of how unspeakably glad he is to be able to say the same.


End file.
